THE  LIBRARY— 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


POEMS    AND    BALLADS 


BY   HENRY   DE    VERB   STACPOOLE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD   AND  COMPANY 
1910 


CONTENTS 
SONGS  OF  ENGLAND 

A  TRIBUTE 

THE    BALLAD    OF   THE    VICTORY 

CAVALIERS,    O   CAVALIERS.'  .  .. 

BALLAD   OF   THE   TRUMPETER     ...         23 

THE  OLD    ENGLISH   TOWN  .  .  25 

THE    VICTORY  ......         27 

A   VISION 28 

SONGS   OF   CHILDHOOD 

TOY   TOWN 33 

THE   MOTHER-LAND 35 

THE   LOST   CHILDREN  ....         36 

SONGS   OF  SPRING 

MAY   DAY  ......         39 


203913' 


4  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  COUNTRY   OF   SPRING           .           .           .  43 

THE  WOOD  OF   HEMLOCK             .            .           .  45 

CREDO       . 51 

THE  VANQUISHED 52 

THE  BUNCH  OF  COWSLIPS        .        •        •  54 

THE  ALMOND  TREE         .                .  56 

THE  SKYLARK 58 

THE  WILD  HYACINTHS     ....  59 

THE  NIGHTINGALES 60 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS 62 

SEA  PASTORAL 64 

BELLONA'S  SONG 67 

THE  BUTTERFLY 68 

SONGS   OF  SUMMER 

THE   RED,    RED   ROSE          ....  73 

IN   THE   GARDEN 75 

THE   OLD   GERMAN    FOREST          .  .  -77 

THE   ROSE 79 

A  SONG  OF  AUTUMN 

THE   SWALLOWS 83 


CONTENTS  5 

SONGS  OF  GREECE 

PAGE 

UPON   THE   HILLS   THE    SHEPHERDS    FEED 

THEIR    FLOCKS 87 

TO   A   TANAGRA   STATUETTE        ...         89 
HYMN   TO   SELENE    .            .            .            .  91 

THE   PIPES   OF   PAN 93 

SONGS   OF  DREAMLAND 

A   BALLAD    OF   DREAMLAND          .  •  •         97 

THE   SKULL '•         99 

THE   GHOSTLY   ORCHARD   .  .  .  .       IOO 

BENEATH   THE   CYPRESS   TREES  .  .103 

BALLAD   OF   THE    SLEEPING    HOUND  .  .       1 04 

GHOSTS     .......       106 

THE   ROAD   TO    NIKKO         .  .  .  .       I 07 

BALLAD   OF   THE    ARRAS    ....       109 

HUNTING    SONG  .  .  .  .  .Ill 

SONGS   OF  FRANCE 

VERLAINE            .            .            .            .            .            -US 
PETER   AND   THE   PIERROT           .            .  117 

TARASCON 119 


To  the  Editors  of  the  London  Daily  Express, 
Country  Life,  and  The  Outlook^  I  must  express 
my  thanks  for  the  hospitality  they  have  given 
to  some  of  these  verses  in  their  columns,  and 
for  permission  to  reproduce  them. 

H.   DE  V.    S. 


SONGS    OF   ENGLAND 


A   TRIBUTE 

[May  7,  1910] 

AMIDST  these  English  meadow  lands, 

A  thousand  years  ago, 
The    kingcups     bloomed     as     now     they 

bloom, 

And  grew  where  now  they  grow, 
And    rfien    walked    then    the    earth    who 

keep 
The  silences  below. 

And  messengers  have  ridden  here 
With  news  of  death  of  kings, 

But  never  with  a  tale  in  words 
Such  as  that  far  flag  flings, 

Half-masted  by  the  village  spire, 
Beneath  the  dawn's  grey  wings. 
9  2 


io  A  TRIBUTE 

"  England  to-day  has  lost  her  king, 

And  every  man  a  friend — 
Yea,  every  man  in  all  the  world, 

From  west  to  bleak  east  end, 
From  where  tJie  cJiampak  casts  lie*  scent 

To  where  those  willows  bend" — 

To  where  the  willows  bend  beneath 
The  sky  of  May,  that  lowers 

Above  the  country  that  he  loved, 
This  English  land  of  ours  ; 

These  trees  all  green,  new   washed   with 

rain, 
These  rain-wet  meadow  flowers. 

Kingcups  and  cowslips,  primroses, 

Simple  and  without  stain, 
Take  them,  O  King,  from  us,  the  poor, 

These  flowers  all  wet  with  rain  ; 
Love's  tribute  to  the  shade  that  stands 

By  knightly  Charlemagne. 


SAIL  HO! 

UPBREAKS  the  morning  through  the  skies 
And  from  the  fore-top  comes  a  hail. 

Far  to  the  east  the  red  dawn  dyes 
A  cloud  of  forty  sail. 


II 
LINE   OF  BATTLE 

The  great  ship,  with  her  fighting  flags 

Seized  to  the  ropes  to  sink  with  her, 
Drags  slowly,  as  a  python  drags, 

Straight  for  the  eastern  blur. 
Brave  Collingwood  with  thirteen  ships 

A  thunder-cloud  to  leeward  lies, 
Captained  by  him  whose  flag  ne'er  dips 

But  to  the  Lord  of  Destinies. 


12    THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  VICTORY 

Lit  by  the  light  of  morning  wide, 

God !  what  a  sight  it  was  to  see 
A  fleet  like  that  triumphant  ride 

The  blue,  triumphant  sea ! 
No  smoke  to  blur  the  vision  fair, 

No  subterfuge  to  hide  the  strong, 
Silent  upon  the  pictured  air, 

Yet  eloquent  as  song. 


Ill 
ENGLAND   EXPECTS 

Before  him  of  the  bended  brow 

The  yeoman  of  the  signals  stands, 
The  halyards  fly,  the  flags  out-blow 

Their  message  to  all  times  and  lands. 
"  England  expects  " — the  ringing  cheers 

That,  as  the  rainbow  message  climbs, 
Outburst  from  every  ship  that  steers 

Shall  echo  through  all  lands  and  times,— 
Shall  echo  from  that  day  to  prove 

How  grand  was  life,  how  great  was  war, 
When  hearts  were  true,  and  Villeneuve 

Was  captain  of  the  Bucentaure. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY  13 

IV 
THE  'TWEEN  DECKS  OF  THE  VICTOR? 

Up  on  the  main  deck  light  is  free ; 

Here  in  the  'tween  decks  light  is  dim, 
And  song  is  not,  but  wind  and  sea 

Are  heard  joined  in  one  battle-hymn. 
Backed  by  the  gun  crews  stript  and  stout, 

Lit  by  the  light  that  lives  in  caves, 
The  long  lines  of  the  guns  look  out 

Upon  the  blue  and  flashing  waves, 
As  rolls  the  great  ship  to  the  whine 

Of  cordage,  block,  and  sheet  that  starts, 
Leading  the  long-drawn  weather  line, 

The  blue  sea  flashing  through  her  ports. 

v 

The  captains  of  the  guns  are  there, 

The  belt  tight  drawn  about  each  waist, 
Great-handed  men  with  pigtailed  hair 

Whom  never  flight  disgraced. 
Brown  with  the  bronze  of  winds  and  suns, 

With  hearts  tattooed  above  their  hearts, 
True  as  the  metal  of  their  guns, 

They  stand  to  play  their  god-like  parts. 


14    THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY 

The  cutlass  and  the  boarding  pike 

Speak  of  the  wild  work  soon  to  be, 
For  these  men  strike,  not  as  we  strike 

Across  wide  leagues  of  sea. 
Insult  they  not  the  God  who  gave 

Us  arms  to  fight  with,  not  to  play 
With  guns  that  send  ships  to  their  grave 

Three  long  sea  leagues  away. 
So  stand  they,  as  to  roll,  and  whine 

Of  stanchion,  block,  and  sheet  that  starts, 
The    Victory  leads  the  weather  line, 

The  sea  breeze  piping  through  her  ports. 

VI 

The  ships  of  France,  the  ships  of  Spain, 

Are  not  less  beautiful  to  see 
Than    our   white   ships    that    spread    the 

main, 

Led  by  the  voiceless   Victory. 
Viewed    from     the    hills    where    History 

stands 

To  watch  the  old  world  pass  away, 
The     sight     seems     seen    from     summer 

strands, 
The  pageant  of  a  summer's  day,— 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY   15 

Till  from  the  fleet  of  Villeneuve 
A  cloud  of  smoke,  a  flame-red  star, 

Break  with  the  sound  that  is  to  prove 
The  roar  of  Trafalgar. 

VII 
CLEARED  FOR   ACTION 

Two  giant  tars  stand  at  the  wheel, 

And  every  sail  draws  to  the  wind, 
And  from  the  trucks  that  skyward  reel 

Unto  the  kelson  blind, 
The  ship  runs  voiceless,  save  the  whine 

Of  rudder  chain  and  hempen  strand, 
Steering  to  break  the  battle  line 

Of  Villeneuve's  command. 

VIII 

The  captains  of  the  guns  below, 

Amidst  the  linstock's  red  display, 
Hark  as  the  cannon  of  the  foe 

Break  up  the  silence  of  the  bay, 
Curse  in  their  beards,  and  have  to  stand 

With  idle  hands,  nor  do,  nor  die, 
Then  burst  in  cheers  at  the  command 

That  breaks  their  chains — "  Let  fly  !  " 


16    THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY 

She  speaks  with  no  uncertain  tongue, 
With  rips  of  light  the  broadsides  roar, 

And    flame,   and   smoke,   and    death   are 

flung 
As  if  from  Hell's  outslamming  door. 

"  Port,    hard   a   port ! "   the    wheel-spokes 

fly, 

The  great  ship  swings,  and  terrible, 
With  topsails  backed,  the   Victory 
Attacks  the  great  Redoutable. 

IX 

THE  TWO  FLEETS 

Whilst  ship  to  ship,  and  gun  to  gun, 

Ships  fight  as  heroes  fought  of  yore, 
And  battle  clouds  make  dim  the  sun, 

And  deaf  the  day  the  battle's  roar, 
The  clash  of  steel,  the  smash  of  spars, 

The  shouts  of  giant  ships  that  pour 
From  deck  to  deck  their  fighting  tars 

Wake  echoes  from  the  distant  shore. 
The  storm  of  guns,  the  storm  of  cheers 

With  which  the  boarders  greet  commands, 
Outbursting  from  each  ship  that  steers, 

Shall  echo  through  all  times  and  lands, — 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY   17 

Shall  echo  from  that  day  to  prove 

How    great   was    life,   how   grand   was 
war, 

When  steel  was  steel,  and  Villeneuve 
Was  captain  of  the  Bucentaure. 

x 

Four  fleeting  hours,  the  work  is  done, 

And  lo  !   an  age  has  passed  away  ; 
Great  silence  falls  on  the  last  gun 

As  sunset  floods  o'er  Cadiz  bay. 
The  sea  wind  lifts  the  curtain  white 

Of  battle  smoke — the  sea  wind  shows 
Unto  the  vague  approaching  night 

The  British  and  their  shattered  foes  : 
Tall  masts  whose  trucks  once  swept  the 
stars, 

Awash  with  wreckage  in  the  waves  ; 
Great  men  who  drove  the  capstan  bars 

And    served    the    guns,    flung    to    their 

graves ; 
Great  ships,  at  dawn  so  fair  to  see, 

By  sunset's  light  so  pitiable  ; 
And  in  their  midst  the    Victory 

Fast  seized  to  the  Redoutable. 

3 


i8    THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY 

XI 

As  stricken  gladiators  cling 

Together  in  a  fast  embrace 
Whilst  all  the  watching  eyes  that  ring 

The  circus  seek  the  Emperor's  face, 
These  two  great  ships  clung  fast,  alone, 

Silent  and  fierce,  till  far  above, 
God  gave  the  liabet  from  His  Throne, 

And  broke  the  power  of  Villeneuve. 
Now  side  by  side  they  idly  lie, 

The  green  sea  washing  in  between  ; 
The  fishing  sea-gulls  wheel  and  cry, 

As  rocks  the  sea-swell,  vast,  serene, 
The  grand  bulk  of  the   Victory. 

The  tragic  mistress  of  the  scene. 

• 

XII 

The  captain  of  the  fight,  no  more, 

Beyond  the  sunset,  who  knows  where? 
Has  gone  to  meet  on  some  far  shore 

His  officers  who  wait  him  there. 
And  they  have  gone  without  their  swords 

Who  dominated  once  the  seas, 
Who  spoke  with  cannon-shots  for  words, 

Till  God  dictated  Peace. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE   VICTORY 19 

XIII 

Thus  evening  fell  on  that  great  fray ; 

And  though  long  years  have  passed  since 

then, 
The  flag  of  Britain  still,  to-day, 

Calls  to  the  hearts  of  Englishmen  : 
"  Prove  to  the  world  your  greatness,  prove 

Yourselves  as  then,  when,  grand  in  war, 
Great  Nelson  lived  and  Villeneuve 

Was  captain  of  the  Bucentaure" 


CAVALIERS,  O  CAVALIERS! 

MEN  of  Yorkshire,  men  of  Kent, 

Cavaliers,  O  Cavaliers  ! 
Ye  who  into  battle  went 
For  your  faith,  and  ye  who  spent 

For  the  King  your  blood  and  tears, — 

Answer  us  who  call  you  now, 
Speak  across  the  vanished  years 

From    the    fields    where     spring    flowers 
grow, 

Battlefields  of  long  ago, 
Cavaliers,  O  Cavaliers ! 

Voices  call  to  you  to-day : 

"  Help  us,  set  by  craven  fears  ; 
Strike  sedition,  strike  decay ; 
Step  forth  with  us,  laughing,  gay, 
•  Ghosts  of  knightly  Cavaliers ! " 
20 


CAVALIERS,   O   CAVALIERS!       21 

Still  the  noble  forelands  stand, 

Still  her  green  the  oak-tree  wears  ; 
Yet  the  worm  works  in  the  land, 
Sapping  England's  spirit  grand, 
Sullying  the  name  she  bears. 


Little  men  with  little  soul 

Lead  our  thought,  and  meet  with  jeers 
All  men  with  a  grander  goal, 
Drums  that  round  the  round  world  roll, 

Cavaliers,  O  Cavaliers  ! 


Ye  had  faults,  but,  God  !  how  fine 
Were  ye  in  those  troublous  years ! 

Loved  ye  women,  dice,  and  wine, 

But  in  battle  how  divine 
Stood  ye  forth,  O  Cavaliers  ! 


We  have  men  and  we  have  swords, 

And  a  name  the  whole  world  fears 
Yet  by  futile  men  of  words 
Driven  are  we  like  the  herds, 
Twisted  like  the  vane  that  veers. 


22       CAVALIERS,   O  CAVALIERS! 

Wake  in  us,  O  Spirits  grand, 

For  our  turning-point  now  nears ; 
By  the  strength  of  England's  hand 
She  shall  fall  or  she  shall  stand 
Queenly  in  the  unborn  years. 

One  for  King  and  country,  all, 

Heedless  though  the  whole  world  hears, 

Sound  the  bugle,  at  the  call 

Help  us  so  we  hold  the  wall ! 
Cavaliers,  O  Cavaliers ! 


BALLAD   OF   THE   TRUMPETER 

NASEBY  FIELD 

FILLED  with  the  breath  of  me  my  bugle 

led  the  charge, 

Here  where  the  golden  corn  is  growing  ; 
Over  the  death  of  me  the  battle  blossomed 

large, 

Here   where   the    cornflowers   blue    are 
blowing. 

Over  the  trumpeter  who  led  the  Cavaliers, 
Over  the  silence  he  is  keeping, 

Over  the  golden  corn  the  wind  of  summer 

veers, 
Over  the  crimson  poppies  sleeping. 

Yea,  but   the    soul    of   me    still    fills    the 

bugle  gay, 

Still  when  the  battle  calls  I  hear  it ; 
Here  though  my  dust  may  be  and  far  the 

fight  away, 

Here  lies  my  dust,  but  there  my  spirit. 
23 


24   BALLAD   OF  THE  TRUMPETER 

Still  as  of  old   it    lives,  though    here    my 

body  lies, 
Shrill  through  the  clash  of  swords  that 

sever, 
Still  from   the   bugle's  throat   across    the 

fight  it  cries, 

"  ENGLAND  FOR  EVER  AND  FOR  EVER  ! " 

When,  lit  by  light   of  sword   and    riding 

knee  to  knee, 

Bright  through  the  battle  into  story, 
England's     swift     squadrons     ride,     their 

trumpeter  is  me, 
Yea,  and  their  glory  is  my  glory. 


THE   OLD   ENGLISH   TOWN 

IT  is  June.     'Neath  the  bridge  where  the 

blue  river  strays 

The  dragonflies  pass  on  their  way. 
It   is    June,  and  the  Mendips   hang   blue 

in  the  haze  ; 
It  is  June,  and  the  roses  are  gay. 

From    the   town  wrapped    in    slumber   of 

noontide  the  breeze 
Scarce  bringeth  a  sound  to  the  ear, 
Save  the  voices  of  birds  from  the  gardens 

and  trees, 
Proclaiming  the  sweet  of  the  year. 

So  silent  the  market-place  lieth,  it  seems, 

If  market  were  ever  held  there, 
The  merchants  were  surely  the  people  of 

dreams, 

Sun-banished — no  man  knoweth  where. 
25  4 


26       THE   OLD   ENGLISH   TOWN 

And    Fore    Street    and    Main    Street   so 
ancient  are  they, 

So  silent,  the  spirit  half  hears 
The  echoing  tramp  of  the  Ironsides  grey 

And  the  drums  of  the  lost  Cavaliers. 

In  many  a  mind  lies  the  old  English  town, 

And  many  a  heart  feels  its  loss, 
Where   the    tropic    wave    breaks    or    the 

grass  burneth  brown 
On     the    Veldt    'neath     the    Southern 
Cross. 

Oh  to  stand  on  the  bridge  where  the  blue 

river  strays, 
When    the    dragonflies    pass    on    their 

way, 
In  June,  when  the  mountains   hang   blue 

like  a  haze — 
In  June,  when  the  roses  are  gay! 


THE    VICTORY 

SIGHTED  OFF  TARIFA 

WHERE  Africa  Tarifa  hails 

Across  the  blue  sea's  flashing  floor, 
Like  cloud  blown  after  cloud,  there  sails 

A  phantom  fleet  for  evermore. 
Through  open  ports  their  guns  we  view, 

As,  piled  with  canvas  white  as  snow, 
To  where  the  pennons  flog  the  blue, 

Like  cloud  blown  after  cloud,  they  go. 
That  ship  on  which  the  great  sun  shines, 

She  is  the   Victory. 

Just  as  there 
She  sails,  with  sunlight  on  her  lines 

And  topsails  trembling  into  air, 
So  shall  she  sail  before  the  eyes 

Of  men,  nor  ever  an  anchor  cast, 
Until  the  seas  forget  the  skies, 

Until  the  world  forgets  its  past. 
27 


A   VISION 

FROM   THE  PICTURE   BY   MR.  C.  R.  WYLIE 

HULLED  right  down  to  the  water-line, 

Holed  between  wind  and  spray, 
Forging  ahead  with  pumps  a-whine, 

Wireless  shot  away, 
Boats  and  booms  and  nettings  shed, 

How  well  she  holds  her  own  ; 
— And  never  a   dock  from  Flamborough 
Head 

To  far-off  Portsmouth  town. 

The  English  land  that  gave  her  birth 

Broad  on  the  starboard  beam, 
The  headlands  and  the  good  brown  earth, 

The  bays  where  seagulls  scream  ; 
Six  hundred  miles  of  coastline  spread 

With  tower  and  church  and  town, 
— And  never  a  dock  from   Flamborough 
Head 

To  where  the  Tyne  runs  down  ! 
28 


A   VISION  29 

O  good  brown  earth  that  gave  her  birth, 

O  men  who  gave  her  soul, 
Behold  her  now  with  battered  prow 

Lipped  by  the  long  sea  roll ; 
Stricken,  jackalled,  kite-pursued, 

And  never  an  open  door 
From  Tynemouth  lights  and  Flamborough 
heights 

To  where  the  Goodwins  roar! 


SONGS    OF   CHILDHOOD 


TOY   TOWN 

ALL  April-green  'neath  April  skies, 
Beyond  the  land  of  Spring  it  lies ; 
Beyond  the  hills  and  far  away, 
A  vanished  country  quaint  and  gay. 

Sometimes   in    Spring,  when  south  winds 

blow, 

And  o'er  the  blue  the  white  clouds  go, 
Nodding  in  dreams  I  hear  from  there 
Faint  sounds  as  of  a  distant  fair ; 
The  tap  of  drums,  toy  trumpets  blown, 
The  hubbub  of  a  fairy  town, — 

A  town  the  strange  metropolis 
Of  folk  whose  curious  faith  was  this : 
A  firm  belief  in  Noah's  Ark 
By  day,  and  goblins  after  dark. 

33  5 


34  TOY  TOWN 

Writer  or  poet,  they  were  just 
Like  other  mortals  made  of  dust, 
But  white  mice  had  a  glamour  there 
For  ever  lost  in  denser  air. 

Ah  me  !   the  world  went  well,  I  ween, 
There  where  the  world  was  mostly  green, 
Where  people's  hair  was  mostly  curled, 
And  every  garden  was  a  world. 

Could  I  return  and  sojourn  there, 

And  find  again  that  joyous  fair 

Where  drums  were  beaten,  trumpets  blown, 

And  unto  Gloom  no  quarter  shown, 

I  would  return — but  that  I  trow 

No  person  there  would  know  me  now. 


THE   MOTHER-LAND 

SINCE  God,  to  folk  of  six  or  seven 
Gave  strength  with  which  no  king  may 
strive, 

Since  half  the  sweetness  under  heaven 
He  gave  to  people  under  five. 

We  little  knew  what  we  were  giving, 
Methinks,  when  we  gave  play  for  strife 

And  for  the  land  where  we  are  living 
The  country  where  we  played  at  Life. 

O'er  wooden  trees  and  toy-church  steeple 
Burns  faintly  each  man's  morning  star, 

O  Mother-land  whose  laughing  people 
The  dearest  of  all  people  are ! 

To  Death  some  fragment  of  thy  stories 
The  beggar  brings,  and  to  thy  song, 

Behind  the  dying  Emperor's  glories, 
His  old  tin  soldiers  tramp  along. 

We  turn  from  thee,  new  countries  take  us ; 
We    change    for  gold    our    groats   and 

pence, 

Our  broken  toys  for  toys  that  break  us, 
For  what)  God  knows,  our  innocence. 
35 


THE   LOST  CHILDREN 

I  PIPE  beneath  the  morning  star, 

Across  the  fields  of  early  frost 
My  music  leads  from  near  and  far 

The  footsteps  of  the  children  lost. 
Beyond  the  lands  by  light  forlorn 

I  bring  them  to  such  fields Ah  well  ! 

For  my  beloved  ye  would  not  mourn 

If  they  could  tell ! 

-If  they  could  tell! 

"  O  piper,  thou  hast  led  them  hence. 

What  then  ?     The  tale  unwritten  lies 
Of  those  sweet  hearts  of  Innocence, 

Their  wanderings  under  alien  skies. 
Shines   there   the   sun  ?    blows   there   the 
wind? 

The  butterfly — what  share  has  he  ?  " 

Oh  thou  wouldst  never  more  be  blind 
If  thou  couldst  see  ! 

—If  thou  couldst  see! 
36 


SONGS   OF   SPRING 


MAY   DAY 

FROM  where  I  lie 
There  stretches  for  me 

Infinite  sky 

And  the  foam-flecked  free 
Blue  of  the  everlasting  sea. 

White  sails  of  ships 
Away  and  away, 

Where  the  ocean  lips 
The  rim  of  the  day, 
Pass  to  the  west  on  the  winds  of  May. 

From  the  distant  braes, 
Through  the  silence  deep, 

From  the  flocks  that  graze 
Come  the  bells  of  sheep, 
Faint    like    a    sound    from    the    hills    of 
sleep. 

39 


40  MAY   DAY 

And  now  and  again 
A  great  wave  dying 

Breaks  ;   through  the  rain 
Of  the  salt  spume  flying 
I  hear  whole   leagues  of  the  white  coast 
sighing. 

No  other  sound, 
From  the  light  that  trills 

The  arc  profound 
That  the  ocean  fills 

To    the    highlands   bound    by   the   hazy 
hills, 

Save  the  wind  that  sings 
Of  the  hills  of  heather, 

Till  the  soul  takes  wings, 
And  from  earthly  tether 
Freed,  ascends  through  the  azure  weather  ; 

Till  the  sea  below 
And  the  land  sea-bound 

Fade  in  the  glow 
Of  the  light  around, 

And    the   soul   is    lost   in    the   blue   pro- 
found. 


MAY   DAY  41 

O  beauties  of  sky 
And  the  fields  of  the  sea, 

Must  ye  die  when  I  die, 
Though  my  passion  for  ye 
Is  the   love   of  the   blue   and   the  bright 
and  the  free? 

Will  ye  give  to  your  lover 
No  power  to  roam, 

Though  his  soul  would  discover 
No  happier  home 

Than  the  fields  of  the  aether,  the  meadows 
of  foam  ? 

The  fields  of  the  aether 
Where  waiteth  for  me, 

In  halcyon  weather, 
A  white  spirit,  free 

From   the   form    that   shall    never   return 
from  the  sea. 

The  red  sun  sinks, 
Through  the  twilight  grey 

The  gull's  wing  blinks 
On  the  homeward  way, 
As  over  the  sea  comes  the  moon  of  May. 

6 


42  MAY   DAY 

From  the  waves  that  mourn 
In  the  sea-cave's  keep, 

From  the  waves  cliff-torn 
Comes  a  sonorous,  deep 
Sound  like  a  requiem  sung  by  Sleep 

For  the  day  now  gone 
For  ever  to  be 

With  the  sunken  sun, 
With  the  visions  that  flee — 
And  the  ships  that  shall  never  come  back 
from  the  sea. 


THE   COUNTRY   OF   SPRING 

TELL   me,  O  Life,  where  a  man  may  be 

gay, 

Wishing  life  longer,  and  longer  the  day? 
Where   are   the   dawns   most   seraphic   of 

wing, 
Evenings  least  grey? 

In  the  country  of  Spring. 

Tell  me,   O    Love,  where   a   beggar    may 

find 
Love  ?   and,   O  Love,  where  art  thou  the 

least  blind  ? 

Where   are  the  songs  that  the  lost  shep- 
herds sing, 
Blown  on  the  wind  ? 

In  the  country  of  Spring. 
43 


44       THE  COUNTRY  OF  SPRING 

Answer  me,  Age,  where  those  green  fields 

do  lie 
Where  man  returns  ere  he  turns  him   to 

die? 
Where  lives  the  Mother  to  whom  all  men 

cling, 
For  whom  all  sigh? 

In  tlte  country  of  Spring. 

Death !    in    what    land    do    the     violets 

blow 

Over  the  women  men  loved  long  ago  ? 
Where  o'er  their  graves  bloom  the   lilies, 

O  King, 
Whiter  than  snow! 

In  the  country  of  Spring. 


THE  WOOD  OF  HEMLOCK 

I 

OUT  from  the  hemlock  wood  I  came 
Into  no  country  of  the  world; 
My  steed  a  hoof  of  crescent  flame 
Struck  without  sound  on  sward  empearled 
With  flowers,  so  still  they  seemed  to  be 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  beneath  a  sea. 

Up  to  a  castle  old  and  grey, 
With  drawbridge  chains  half  worn  away 
By  rust,  the  red  moth  of  decay, 
I  rode,  and  crossed  a  trembling  bridge 
Into  a  courtyard  that  enclosed 
Nor  echo,  nor  the  sound  of  midge 
Abuzz,  nor  whine  of  hound  that  dozed. 
45 


46        THE  WOOD   OF   HEMLOCK 

Amidst  the  brambles  and  the  thorn, 
Upon  the  flags  a  gauntlet  lay, 
Flung  there  upon  some  hunting  morn, 
Gone  now  as  is  the  winter's  day 
That  saw  to  tune  of  hound  and  horn 
That  chase  stream  over  bank  and  brae. 


II 


Gazing  from  out  a  casement  old, 

A  lady  drew  mine  eyes  to  her. 

Her  hair  was  like  ripe  corn  for  gold  ; 

A  little  cloak  of  fox's  fur 

Covered  her  shoulders,  whilst  her  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  the  far-off  skies 

Whose  wizard  blue  no  wing  might  stir. 

Then,  reining  in,  to  her  I  cried : 
"  O  lady  at  the  casement  wide, 
What  messenger  from  where  doth  ride, 
Bearing  thee  '  Luck  ! '  or  '  Woe  betide  ! '  ? 
And  is  it  Love,  or  is  it  War, 
Burning  before  thee  like  a  star? 


THE  WOOD   OF   HEMLOCK       47 

"  And  who  has  kept  thee  lingering  so, 
Whilst  here  the  wizard  winds  do  blow 
On  fading  flowers,  on  fading  snow? 
Whilst  here  below  thee  in  the  keep 
The     violets     fair     have     bloomed     and 
died  ?  " 

Vanished  the  castle  as  she  sighed, 
Leaving  on  air  the  whisper  "  Sleep." 


Ill 

I  reined  beside  a  woodland  dell 
Where  fiercely,  like  a  red  flower,  blew 
A  battle ;  archers  aiming  well 
Sharpened  their  elbows  as  they  drew 
The  bowstrings,  and  the  vanquished  fell, 
Mixing  their  hearts'  blood  with  the  dew. 

Uprose  the  white  swords  one  and  all, 
And  circling  blushed  red  as  the  rose  ; 
Columns  to  soundless  trumpet-call 
Advanced,    and    broke    'neath    soundless 
blows. 


48        THE   WOOD   OF   HEMLOCK 

I  sat  and  watched.     Betwixt  us  lay 
A  great  old  hedge  of  English  may, 
Robbed  of  its  scent  since  that  far  day. 
1  cried,  "  O  men  of  arms,  ye  slay 
For  what  ?     And  what  crown  shall  ye  keep 
Of  those  ye  win  ?  " 

"Sleep,"  answered  they, 
Vanishing  at  the  dark  word  "  Sleep." 

IV 

And  then  I  found  a  little  town. 

It  sat  within  a  valley's  lap  ; 

Its  battlements  at  me  did  frown  ; 

Its  houses  each  an  iron  cap 

Did  seem  to  wear. 

An  archer  paced 

Before  its  gates  with  vizor  closed, 

And  right,  and  left,  and  right  he  faced, 

Whilst  at  the  gates  a  wolf-hound  dozed. 

I  saw  the  merchants  in  the  mart, 
Soundless,  like  figures  in  brocade  ; 
Jews  with  a  lean  hand  to  the  heart, 
And    goldsmiths    whose    black    hammers 
made 


THE  WOOD   OF   HEMLOCK       49 

No  sound  upon  the  ruddy  gold  ; 
Flax-headed  children,  women  old  ; 
And  here  a  man  who  clasped  a  maid. 

I  cried,  "Who  art  thou,  Archer,  then, 
Guarding  these  locked  by  silence  in  ? 
Who  placed  thee  here,  and  when,  I  pray  ?  " 
Then  came  the  answer  from  within 
The  vizor,  like  an  echo  thin, 
"  Sleep,"  as  the  vision  passed  away. 

V 

I  reined  where  in  an  orchard  old, 
Beneath  the  apples  red  and  gold, 
Fair  children  chased  the  butterflies 
Betwixt  the  trees,  beneath  the  skies. 
And,  as  I  watched  them  at  their  play, 
They,  tiring,  cast  themselves  and  lay 
Where  grew  in  shadow  dim  and  deep 
The  crimson  poppies  strewn  by  Sleep. 

VI 

Then  said  I :  "  Childhood,  Life,  and  War 
All  of  this  wizard  vassals  are. 
Is  there  in  time  no  dream,  no  star 
That  he  may  touch  not,  break,  nor  mar  ?  " 

7 


So        THE  WOOD  OF  HEMLOCK 

For  answer  came  a  man  and  maid  ; 

Across     the    fields     with    spring    flowers 
laid 

Grew  amaranths  where  they  had  strayed, 

And  said  a  voice  : 

"  Behold  !  these  stray 
Taking  through  all  the  lands  of  May, 
Taking  through  life  the  fairest  way, 
To    find    that    unknown    field    where 

dwells 
Sleep  'midst  the  ghostly  asphodels." 


CREDO 

PALE  Beauty's  fire  for  ever  burns, 

No  dream  of  hers  can  die. 
The  butterfly  of  Spring  returns 

Whence  came  the  butterfly. 

The  garden  rose  lies  stricken  dead — 

O  dreamer,  no  man  knows, 
When  she  from  earth  has  turned  her  head, 

Into  what  world  she  blows. 


THE   VANQUISHED 

SOFT  speak  the  streams 

"  Why  lingerest  thus, 
Held  by  what  dreams, 

Harmodius  ? 
Behold  thy  seat, 

The  feast  lies  spread. 
Who  stays  thy  feet, 

O  Diomed?" 

Green  are  the  hills, 

And  where  lay  snow 
Spring's  daffodils 

Are  golden  now, 
For  all  save  they 

Who  at  their  door 
Shall  hear  her  gay 

Sweet  songs  no  more. 
52 


THE  VANQUISHED  53 

Ah,  who  can  say 

What  vanished  Springs 
Re-bloom  when  May 

Here  beauty  brings  ? 
What  fragrant  tale 

Lost  April  tells 
Amidst  the  pale, 

Pale  asphodels  ? 

I  love  to  dream 

That  over  there 
Spring's  cloud  and  gleam 

The  vanquished  share ; 
That  through  the  fleet 

Soft  April  rain 
They  hear  her  sweet, 

Sweet  songs  again. 


THE   BUNCH   OF   COWSLIPS 

A  BUNCH  of  cowslips,  dead  perhaps  to- 
morrow, 
Plucked  yesterday,  has   brought    me    for 

my  sorrow 
A  picture  from  the  land  whose  pictures 

borrow 
Their   beauty   from    the   souls    of   things 

well  slain. 
Beneath    a    sky    grey    as    the    cygnet's 

feather, 
Before     the    wind     pale    cowslips    press 

together 
Their  heads  in  converse,  whilst  the  wild 

spring  weather 
Repaints   the   hedgerows  with  the   brush 

of  rain. 

54 


THE   BUNCH  OF  COWSLIPS       55 

Oh  I  would  give  those  wives  I  have  not 
married 

And  all  those  plans  of  mine  that  have 
miscarried, 

Debts  and  disasters,  blows  I  have  not 
parried, 

And  of  my  life  the  sweet  remaining  span, 

To  find  again  those  fields  where  Spring 
discloses 

The  primrose,  fairer  than  all  future  roses, 

And  midst  those  rain-wet  lands  and  wind- 
blown closes 

Touch  life  a  moment  just  where  life  began. 


THE  ALMOND   TREE 

BESIDE  the  wandering  river  stands 

An  almond  tree  in  bloom  ; 
New  travelled  from  the  far-off  lands 

Beyond  the  Northern  gloom, 
She  casts  her  tale  of  loveliness 

Upon  the  winter's  tomb 
Ere  the   swallows   from   the   south   come 

over  sea. 

Just  in  the  Spring's  first  hour  on  earth, 

Ere  yet  the  door  may  close 
That  here  admits  the  violet, 

Yet  still  excludes  the  rose, 
Some  whisper   comes   from    lands    un- 
known 

Where  dwell  the  ghosts  of  those 
Sweet  singers  who  have  loved  the  earth 
and  sea. 

56 


THE   ALMOND  TREE  57 

For  when  the  almond  tree  displays 

Her  perfect  beauty  thus, 
Sappho,  across  a  thousand  Mays 

Thy  music  steals  to  us  ! 
Some  wind  here  wafts  from  far-off  lands 

Thy  songs,  Theocritus  ! 
As    the    south    wind    wafts    the    swallows 

over  sea. 


THE   SKYLARK 

(TO  THE  SHADE  OF   ERNEST   DOWSON) 

I  HEARD  a  song  as  the  Morning  Star 

Died  in  a  dawn  of  June. 
I  heard  the  leaves  where  the  rose-trees  are 

Dance  to  the  magic  tune. 
Deep,  deep,  from  the  blue  and  far 

Into  my  heart  it  fell, 
From  those  meadows  of  light  that  are 

Trodden  by  Israfel. 

Songs  of  lovers  and  songs  of  war, 
Earth  in  her  pride  may  boast ; 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  songs  are 
Songs  that  the  earth  has  lost. 


THE   WILD    HYACINTHS 

THE    hill-path    turned,    and   in    a    sunlit 

space 

Wild  hyacinths  were  bending  to  the  wind. 
The  veil  of  time  was  rent  before  my  face. 
I  paused,  to  life,  and  age,  and  sorrow, 

blind  ; 
Caught    back    to    youth    a    moment    free 

from  care, 
Old  lands  lay  round  me  ere    I   woke  to 

find 

No  trace  of  all  that  country  but  the  fair 
Blue  hyacinths  all  bending  to  the  wind. 

Nof  the  dark  magic  of  a  woman's  glance, 
Nor  all  the  tongues  of  birds  that  sing  in 

May, 

Can  equal  in  the  language  of  romance 
What  to  the  heart  a  simple  flower  can  say. 
59 


THE   NIGHTINGALES 

(IN   THE  WOODS  OF  SICILY) 

A  THOUSAND  years  their  passion 

Has  filled  the  nights  of  Spring, 
Setting  in  ghostly  fashion 

The  echoes  answering. 
As  now,  it  filled  the  closes, 

When  moonlight  fell  like  snow 
Upon  the  red,  red  roses, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

O  strange  poetic  singers, 

Ye  vague  historians, 
Whose  half-told  story  lingers 

Ghost-like  and  sweet  o'er  Man's 
Of  eyes  that  once  made  jealous 

The  blue  Sicilian  sea 
Remains  alone  to  tell  us 

Theocritus  and  ye. 
60 


THE  NIGHTINGALES  61 

Ask  of  the  past  its  glory, 

Its  joys,  its  griefs,  its  pain, 
Where  shall  ye  find  the  story 

But  in  a  poet's  brain  ? 
And  for  the  tale  of  woman 

Lost  to  the  world  so  long, 
Seek  in  no  records  human 

Save  in  the  poet's  song. 

Theocritus  has  vanished, 

But  still  we  hear  his  strain  ; 
Nations  from  earth  are  banished, 

But  Lacon  shall  remain  ; 
And  nightingales  still  tell  us 

Here,  where  the  roses  blow, 
How  fair  was  Amaryllis 

A  thousand  years  ago. 


APPLE   BLOSSOMS 

(CAMBRIDGESHIRE) 

THE  apple  blossoms  round  me  blow, 

Of  them  my  heart  makes  question  : 
'  Sweet  apple  blossoms,  pure  as  snow 

And  fragrant  with  suggestion, 
Ye  came  from  where  no  man  may  know, 

Called  by  the  wild  Spring  weather ; 
Mortal  and  beautiful  ye  go, 

Sweet  apple  blossoms, — whither?" 

Beside  me  in  the  orchard  close, 

An  echo  answers  ever 
The  wind  that  blows  the  wild  dog-rose, 

The  music  of  the  river. 
Child  of  the  Spring,  she  tells  her  tale, 

Nor  hints  to  who  comes  hither 
Aught  of  the  wind  that  blows  the  pale, 

Frail  apple  blossoms — whither? 
62 


APPLE   BLOSSOMS  63 

The  wind  that  hath  all  lovers  known, 
Yet  of  their  fate  tells  never ; 

The  wind  that,  when  the  flower  has  blown, 
Shall  take  the  flower  for  ever. 


SEA   PASTORAL 

Blue  sea  far  from  land,  sea  Maids  tending  flocks  of 
ocean.  Above  are  passing  butterflies  and  birds  from  the 
south. 

SEA   MAIDS 

WHAT  land,  O  happy  birds, 
Calls  you  across  our  sight, 
Ye  forms — ye  feathered  words 
Born  of  the  Spring's  delight  ? 

NIGHTINGALES 

O'er  Ocean's  flocks  and  herds 
Seek  we  the  lands  of  night. 

SWALLOWS 

Star-guided,  swift  and  far 
We  pass. 

64 


SEA   PASTORAL  65 

SEA  MAIDS 

O  birds  that  sweep 
The  skies,  where  burns  thy  star? 

SWALLOWS 
O'er  the  lands  of  Love  and  Sleep. 

SEA   MAIDS 

Lo !  they  have  passed,  and  lo ! 
Butterflies  white  as  snow, 
Butterflies  blue  as  day. 
Butterflies,  where  away? 
Over  our  heads  ye  pass 
Whither? 

BUTTERFLIES 

A  magic  glass 
Shows  us  'neath  bluer  skies 
Blossoms  and  butterflies, 
Meadows  where  maidens  sing, 
Rivers  whose  music  saith, 
"  Lovers,  come  find  the  Spring 
In  the  country  of  Love  and  Death." 

9 


66  SEA   PASTORAL 

SEA   MAIDS 

Sweet  forms,  ye  pass  away, 

A  mist  on  the  blue  of  day, 

Far  from  the  ocean  spray 

Where  the  lone  sea  maids  sing, 

Immortal,  yet  alway 

Far  from  the  land  of  Spring. 

Past  the  blue  veils  of  sea, 

Butterflies,  would  that  we, 

Immortal,  blind 

To  Love,  could  find, 

The  fair  land  that  you  see. 

Past  seas  and  skies, 

O  Dove  that  flies, 

Where  may  that  country  be? 

Whence  speaks  that  voice  so  filled 

With  the  joy  that  we  would  prove  ? 

DOVE 

From  where,  sweet  maids,  I  build 
In  the  land  of  Death  and  Love. 


BELLONA'S   SONG 

WAR!    War!    War! 

Face  stretched  to  the  heavens  I  cry, 

Through  the  ultimate  depths  of  the  sky. 

I  am  blind  to  the  sun  ; 

I  have  dreams  but  of  one 

Whose  eagles  are  straining  to  fly. 

Forth  driven  from  hell, 

Through  the  darkness  I  yell 

Till  the  drums  and  the  trumpets  reply, — 

Till  the  drums  and  the  bugles  that  blare 

Re-echo  in  thunder  afar, 

Rending  the  earth  and  the  air, 

War!  War!  War! 


67 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

As  through  the  gardens  fair 

Blue-winged  he  flies, 
Heedless  of  earthly  care, 

Heedless  of  sighs, 
So  be  that  roses  blow, 

Heavens  are  blue  ; 
Ten  thousand  years  ago 

Just  so  he  flew. 

Old  are  the  pyramids, 

Older  is  he, 
Yet,  called  by  she  who  bids 

Butterflies  be, 
Over  the  lilac  pale, 

Under  blue  skies, 
Once  more  through  June's  bright  tale 

Boldly  he  flies. 
68 


THE   BUTTERFLY  69 

Long  ere  on  Memnon's  face 

Morning  first  shone, 
Earth  knew  his  fragile  grace, 

Now  here — now  gone. 
Yet  finds  he  Spring  anew 

By  field,  by  stream, 
Flitting,  as  once  he  flew 

Through  Plato's  dream. 


Crush  him,  if  so  you  please, 

Shall  the  bruised  wings 
Fly  not  when  Winter's  trees 

Once  more  are  Spring's  ? 
Faithful  to  earth,  unvexed, 

Through  death  he'll  pass, 
Flitting  across  the  next 

Spring's  magic  glass. 


Backgrounded  by  the  sea, 
Mountains,  and  stars, 

All  Time's  immensity, 
Stories,  and  wars 


70  THE  BUTTERFLY 

Flutters  he  from  the  Past 
O'er  flower  and  bloom, 

Lighting,  mayhap,  at  last 
On  man's  last  tomb. 


SONGS    OF    SUMMER 


THE   RED,   RED   ROSE 

FROM  the  sky  the  red  sun  sinketh  ; 

At  the  doors  of  the  west  the  Night 
From  a  chalice  of  azure  drinketh 

The  wine  of  his  crimson  light. 
And  the  nightingale  sadly  crieth 

Far  in  the  woods  apart, 
But  the  soul  of  his  sadness  lieth 

In  the  gloom  of  thy  splendid  heart. 

As  through  the  warm  June  weather 

Dusk  follows  the  curlews'  call, 
On  thy  face  the  dewdrops  gather, 

Drop  after  drop  they  fall. 
And  leaving  the  lilies  to  languor, 

The  fireflies  make  their  light 
Attendant  upon  thy  splendour, 

Queen  of  the  garden's  night. 

73  10 


74  THE   RED,    RED   ROSE 

And  the  nightingale  sadly  crieth 

Far  in  the  woods  apart, 
But  the  soul  of  his  sadness  lieth 

In  the  gloom  of  thy  splendid  heart. 


IN   THE   GARDEN 

I  SIT  where  guelder  roses  blow ; 

A  bottle  of  red  wine 
Before  me  casts  its  ruby  glow 

On  rose  and  eglantine. 
Upon  my  knees  a  book  I  hold. 

O  tales  of  old  romance, 
How  well  ye  go  with  gardens  old 

And  the  red  wines  of  France  ! 

Unto  the  true  nobility 
Of  things  do  ye  belong  ; 

Never  with  us  ye  disagree, 
Or  work  our  feelings  wrong. 

Old  books,  old  gardens,  ruby  wine, 

Ye  own  one  spirit  half  divine. 
75 


76  IN   THE   GARDEN 

Then  grow  you  old  in  quest  of  gold, 
So  be  you  leave  me  these, 

My  library,  a  cellar  cold, 

This  garden  where  some  breeze 

Bears  faintly  from  the  far-off  years 

The  trumpets  of  the  Cavaliers. 


THE   OLD    GERMAN   FOREST 

I  LISTEN,  no  sound  fills  the  air 
Of  the  pine  forests  perfumed  and  fair ; 
Long  leagues  of  deep  twilight  lie  round, 
Long  leagues  of  sweet  silence,  no  sound  ; 
Till  a  jay  wakes  and  calls,  and  the  wind 
Re-awakens  and  leaves  far  behind, 
O'er  the  perfume  and  gloom  of  the  trees, 
A  sound  like  the  sigh  of  the  seas. 

The  wind  dies  away  and  away, 

And  the  silence  resumes  its  lost  sway, 

Till  over  the  forest  again 

Comes    the   rush    of    the    wind    and    the 

rain 

Of  the  cones,  and  most  faint  and  forlorn 
The  note  of  a  far  hunting-horn 
Makes  ghostly  the  twilight  so  deep 
With    the   forms    and    the    phantoms    of 

sleep. 

77 


78      THE   OLD   GERMAN   FOREST 

That  is  all  that  the  pine  forests  say ; 
Though  you  listen  at  noontide  for  aye, 
You   shall   hear   nothing   more,   save   the 

fall 

Of  the  red  fox's  foot,  or  the  call 
Of  the  horn  that  some  ranger  does  wind, 
And  on  earth  or  in  air  you  shall  find 
No  sounds  that  are  better  than  these, 
Or  filled  with  such  sweetness  and    peace. 


THE    ROSE 

WHAT  says  the  rose  whose  life  is  but  an 

hour? 
"  I  am  the  rose  here  sent  from  heaven  to 

say, 
'  Love    once,   and   you    have   plucked  the 

only  flower 
That  dies  not  in  this  garden  of  decay.' " 


79 


A    SONG    OF    AUTUMN 


ii 


THE  SWALLOWS 

THOUGH    nests    hang    empty    'neath    the 
eaves, 

Sweetheart,  the  swallows  still  are  here ; 
They  came  when  vernal  were  the  leaves 

That  now  are  turning  to  the  sere. 
Their  joyousness  my  spirit  grieves — 
The  swallows  to  thy  heart  were  dear. 

By  what  strange  star  do  swallows  steer? 
What     voice     enchants     the     swallow's 

heart, 
And    from    the    north    in    spring    cries 

"Here!" 
And  in  the  autumn  days,  "  Depart  "  ? 

Mayhap,  that  voice  led  thee  past  Fear, 
Death,  and  the  dim  enchanted  mere — 
The  swallows  to  thy  heart  were  dear. 
83 


SONGS    OF    GREECE 


UPON    THE    HILLS    THE    SHEP- 
HERDS FEED  THEIR  FLOCKS 

(ATHENS) 

UPON  the   hills  the  shepherds    feed    their 

flocks. 

Afar  the  sea — the  violet-tinted  sea — 
Still    floods    in    foam    around    the    Pontic 

rocks, 

And  with  the  golden  sun  holds  revelry  ; 
Lulling  the  hyacinths  with  drowsy  rhyme, 

About  Pentelicus  still  floats  the  bee  ; 
All  is  as  fair  as  in  the  olden  time, 
All  is  as  fair  as  then — 

But  where  are  ye? 

Sweet    spoke    the    wild    birds    when     ye 

sailed  away 

Across  the  sea,  the  dark  and  sterile  sea, 
And  still  they  tell  the  self-same  tales  to-day 
To  lovers  whispering  'neath  the  ilex  tree 
87 


88  ATHENS 

Men's   hearts   are   young    and   Eros   still 

doth  wear 

His  magic,  and  the  voiceless  poetry 
Of  violets  still  fills  the  warm  spring  air. 
All  still  is  fair  as  then — 

But  where  are  ye? 

Where  art  thou  now,  O  Pindar?  in  what 

land, 
Demosthenes,   what    tongue    now   dost 

thou  speak  ? 
Far  from   the   plane  trees   by  the   spring 

wind  fanned, 
Far  from  Piraeus  where  the  blue  waves 

break. 
The  plane  trees  bend   them  to  the  winds 

of  spring, 

And  echoes  answer  to  the  breaking  sea  ; 
Sweet    from    the   olive    groves   the    wild 

birds  sing 
For  ever  of  their  love — 

But  where  are  ye? 


TO  A  TANAGRA  STATUETTE 

THY  gracefulness  we  gaze  upon, 

Lent  to  our  eyes  by  grace 
Of  Time,  who  wrecked  the  Parthenon, 

Yet  spared  thy  rosebud  face. 
With  happy  lips  that  seem  to  spell 

The  words  the  wild  birds  say, 
What  is  it,  then,  that  thou  wouldst  tell, 

Thou  little  dream  of  May? 

A  thousand  years  have  passed  and  gone, 

Remains  thy  loveliness, 
A  thing  for  men  to  gaze  upon, 

A  thing  the  world  to  bless. 
Watching,  we  wait  the  words  to  pass 

Those  lips  that  tell  for  aye 
Some  tale — eternally,  alas  ! 

By  silence  kissed  away. 

89  12 


90     TO  A  TANAGRA   STATUETTE 

Time's  boasted  splendours  leave  us  cold, 

Pathetic  or  sublime  ; 
His  citadels  and  temples  old, 

They  glorify  but  Time. 
Thou  art  the  warmest  thing  that  he 

Has  touched,  yet  left  complete — 
Yea,  thou,  thou  strange  epitome 

Of  all  fair  things  and  sweet. 


HYMN   TO   SELENE 

SHE  hath  watered  her  steeds  at  the  mystic 

wells 
Where  the   spirit   of   sleep   in    the    lotus 

dwells, 

Pallid  and  fair  o'er  the  twilit  tides, 
O'er  the  asphodels 

And  the  night  she  glides. 

Above  her  lieth  the  steep  dark,  free, 

Swept  by  the  winds  of  infinity ; 

The  spume  of  her   steeds   as   a   pale  fire 

spills 
O'er  the  slumbrous  seas, 

O'er  the  silent  hills. 

Night  behind  on  the  dark  sea's  brink 
Watcheth  her  coursers  pale  and  sink, 
Before  her  day  like  a  dappled  fawn 
Steals  to  drink 

At  the  pools  of  dawn. 
91 


9a  HYMN  TO   SELENE 

Hail !   O  maiden  who  casteth  thy  light 
O'er   the  dark  fields   and   the   valleys   of 

night, 

O'er  the  wan  cities,  the  woodlands  fair  ; 
Earthly  delight 

— And  the  world's  despair. 


THE   PIPES    OF   PAN 

And  a  voice  ran  over  land  and  sea,  crying,  lt  Pan  is  dead, 
great  Pan  is  dead." 

IT  was  not  so, 

For  the  wild  birds  know 

One  dawn  in  Thessaly  long  ago 

A  sweeter  song  than  the  south  winds  blow 

Under  the  olives  ran, 

And   through   the   dreams  of    the    Oread 

sighed, 

And  to  the  ear  of  the  Bassarid  cried, 
Follow  the  pipes  of  Pan ! 

Then  the  Haemadryad  rose  and  shook 
Her  hair  from  the  oak  by  sorrow  strook, 
And  the  Oread  cast  a  long,  last  look 
Where  far  Penaeus  ran. 
93 


94  THE   PIPES   OF   PAN 

And   through   the  woods  where  the  dark 

fawns  leap, 
And  mountain  paths  where  the  hill  winds 

weep, 

Into  the  fair  dim  land  of  sleep 
They  followed  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Ah !   never  a  rose  may  rise  to  tell 

Of  the  fortunate  fate  that  her  befell— 

Of  the  southern  land  where  roses  dwell 

Under  the  winter's  ban. 

Yet  the  swallows  have  told,  and  the  poet 

he  knows, 

That  over  the  time  of  the  northern  snows, 
The  land  of  the  myrtle  hides  the  rose 
As  the  land  of  our  dreams  hides  Pan. 


SONGS    OF    DREAMLAND 


A   BALLAD   OF   DREAMLAND 

TO-NIGHT  in  Dreamland  who  can  rest? 

We  hear  on  the  night  wind  falling, 
Over  the  hills  in  the  dim,  dark  West. 

The  horn  of  a  huntsman  calling. 
"  Follow ! "  the  horn  of  the  huntsman  cries; 

On  the  wind  over  plain  and  hollow 
A  voice  from  the  tarn  where  Echo  lies 

Dreamily  answers,  "  Follow  !  " 

We  hear  the  far-off  horn,  we  come, 

Into  the  forest  sweepeth 
The  wild  white  chase  by  waters  dumb 
Where    the     fern     and     the     hemlock 

sleepeth. 
Who  knows   the   form  of  the   thing   that 

flies? 
Hath   it  feet  ?     Hath   it   wings   like    a 

swallow  ? 
Who    cares?      The     horn    of  the    hunter 

cries 

To  the  shadowy  huntsmen,   '  Follow  !  " 
97  13 


98      A   BALLAD   OF   DREAMLAND 

The    third    cock    crows,   the    dawn    wind 
blows, 

The  beams  of  morning  quiver ; 
Down  vale  and  glade  the  huntsmen  fade 

Like  mists  upon  the  river. 
Whilst     o'er     the    streams    and    hills    of 
dreams 

Die  horn  and  hunting  halloa, 
Far,  far  away  where  night  nor  day, 

Nor  hound  nor  horse,  may  follow. 


THE   SKULL 

WARM  arms  to  a  breast 

Once  my  beauty  did  fold, 

Once  truly  at  rest 

Did  I  lie. 

Though  ye  shudder  who  scan 

Me  upturned  from  the  mould, 

I  was  loved  by  a  man — 

Even  I. 


99 


THE   GHOSTLY   ORCHARD 

WANDERING  last  night  amidst  the  fields 

of  sleep, 

I   met  a  Spirit  white  as  Death,  yet  white 
As  dawn,  who  led   me  by  the  hand,  oh, 

deep 

Into  the  past  beyond  the  veils  of  night. 
There  in  a  country  old  he  showed  to  me 
An  apple  orchard  painted  fresh  by  Spring, 
Amidst  whose  trees   the   little   birds    did 

sing 

Of  Life  and  Love,  and  of  Eternity. 
Across  the  sky  a  few  white  clouds  did  go 
Softly,  and   white  as  lambs,  or  white  as 

snow  ; 

100 


THE   GHOSTLY   ORCHARD       101 

And  to  mine  ear  the  Spirit  whispering  said, 
"A  thousand  years  ihave   vanished   since 

they  strayed 
Across   that   sky,  and   all   this   wondrous 

show 

Of  blossom  died  a  thousand  years  ago — 
Ah  Gcd  !     Ah  God  !    what  havoc   Death 

has  made !  " 

In  fields  near  by  the  young  white  lambs 

did  leap, 

And  daffodils  lay  in  the  golden  light ; 
Now  seemed  the  daffodils  all  lost  in  sleep, 
Now    on    the    wind    they    danced    as    in 

delight. 
And  then  there  came  a  man  and   maid, 

ah  me  ! 
Across    that    orchard    painted    fresh    by 

Spring, 

Where  in  the  trees  the  little  birds  did  sing 
Of  Love  and  Life,  and  of  Eternity. 
They  paused  to  hear  the  thrush,  that  love 

adept ; 
I  watched  her  arm  as  round  his  neck  it 

crept. 


loz      THE   GHOSTLY  ORCHARD 

Then  to  mine  ear  the  Spirit  whispering 
said, 

"  Far  from  the  wild  sweet  Spring  these 
forms  have  strayed, 

Far  from  this  orchard  where  the  brown 
thrush  sings 

Songs  that  have  echoed  through  a  thou- 
sand springs." 


BENEATH   THE   CYPRESS   TREES 

BENEATH  the  cypress  trees 

Lai's  her  council  keeps, 
Sappho,  the  dreamer  of  the  seas, 

With  Theodora  sleeps. 

There  lies  the  Phrygian  slave, 
The  Queen,  the  Emperor's  joy, 

There  Thais  lies  and  she  who  gave 
The  kiss  that  ruined  Troy. 

Men  and  the  gods  above 

These  held  whom  none  regret, 

Who,  couldst   thou  ask   them,  "  What   is 

Love  ?  " 
Would  answer,  "  We  forget." 

O  face  so  fair  to  see, 

Eyes  bluer  than  the  seas, 
What  shall  all  beauty  profit  ye 

Beneath  the  cypress  trees? 
103 


BALLAD   OF  THE   SLEEPING 
HOUND 

GREAT  hound  with  head  upon  my  knee, 

Deep  eyes  so  faithful  and  so  fair, 
Face  stamped  with  that  nobility 

The  kings  of  earth  no  longer  wear ; 
Hound  royal,  yet  content  to  share 

A  crust  of  mine  and  find  thy  bliss 
Beside  a  ruined  hearth,  if  there 

Thy  well-beloved  master  is. 

Before  that  hearth  in  slumber  now, 

Thy     limbs     a-twitch,     a     white     fang 

gleams — 
It  is  some  royal  game  I  trow 

Upon  whose  spoor  the  wild  chase  teems ; 
Faint  bells  the  horn  o'er  phantom  streams, 

And  though  the  kill  with  thee  I  miss, 
I  know  the  huntsman  of  thy  dreams 

Thy  well-beloved  master  is. 
104 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SLEEPING  HOUND  105 

Dream   on,  and  fortune  lend  thee  wings 

O'er  lakes  unruffled  by  the  swan, 
Beneath  that  sky  where  no  bird  sings, 

Good  luck  to  fang  and  foot.    Dream  on. 
Fate  lend  thy  shade  such  speed  upon 

The  way  when,  waiting  for  thy  kiss, 
In  lands  beyond  the  light  of  sun 

Thy  well-beloved  master  is. 

ENVOI 

If  there  be  heaven,  its  joys  we'll  share  ; 

Full  well  I  know  if  heaven  I  miss, 
Hell  will  not  bar  thee  out — if  there 

Thy  well-beloved  master  is. 


GHOSTS 

GONE  is  the  rain,  no  flower  the  garden 

graces  ; 
Over   the   world    the    skies    of    winter 

harden  ; 
Pale  at  my  pane  the  frost  flowers  press 

their  faces, 

Ghosts  that  half  veil  the  ruins  of  my 
garden. 

And  as  they  press,  so  press  those  other 

faces, 
Pale    at    the   pane    half  veiling    Life's 

December — 
Ghosts  without  stain 

Of  loved  ones  I  remember. 


106 


THE   ROAD   TO   NIKKO 

(From  THE  CRIMSON  AZALEAS) 

UPON  the  road  to  Nikko, 
The  town  where  pilgrims  pray, 
Along  the  road  to  Nikko, 
On  either  side  the  way, 
Thundering  great  camellia  trees, 
Decked  with  blossoms  gay, 
Adorn  the  road  to  Nikko, 
The  mountain  road  to  Nikko, 
In  the  month  of  May. 

Then  take  the  road  to  Nikko, 
Where  bright  azaleas  bloom, 
Where  all  is  light  and  shadow 
And  nothing  is  of  gloom, 
Where  shout  the  coloured  blossoms, 
Where  fan  ferns  whispering  say, 
"  There  is  no  town  like  Nikko 
In  all  the  world  of  May." 
107 


io8         THE   ROAD   TO   NIKKO 

Tokio  has  her  tea-house, 

Kioto  has  her  girls, 

But  look  out  there  where  bluely 

The  great  god  Distance  curls 

His  arm  around  that  vision 

So  dim,  so  far  away, 

So  beautiful — that's  Nikko, 

Amidst  the  land  of  May. 


BALLAD   OF   THE   ARRAS 
(From  DEATH,  THE  KMGHT,  AND  THE  LADY) 

Lo  !   where  are  now  these  armoured  hosts 
Mailed  for  the  tourney  cap-a-pie, 

These  dames  and  damozelles  whose  ghosts 
Make  of  the  past  this  pageantry  ? 

O  sanguine  book  of  History  ! 

Romance  with  perfume  cloaks  thy  must, 

But  he  who  shakes  the  page  may  see — 
Dust. 

Stiff  hangs  the  arras  in  the  gloom  ; 

I  turn  my  head  awhile  to  gaze  : 
Here  lordly  stallions  fret  and  fume, 
Here  streams  o'er  briar  and  brake   the 

chase ; 
Here  sounds  a  horn,  here  turns  a  face 

How  filled  with  fires  of  life  and  lust! 
Wind  shakes  the  arras  and  betrays — 
Dust. 

109 


no        BALLAD   OF  THE   ARRAS 

Ephemeral  hand  inditing  this, 

Great  hound  that  lolls  against  my  knee, 
Heart  that  the  fires  of  spring  shall  miss 

In  years  to  come,  the  time  shall  be 
When  one  may  search,  but  find  not  ye 

For  that  dim  moth  whose  labours  rust 
All  forms  in  time  or  tapestry — 
Dust 


HUNTING  SONG 

(From  THE  DRUMS  OF  WAR) 

HOUND  and  horn,  give  voice  and  tongue, 
Fill  the  woods  with  echoes  gay  ; 

Let  your  music  sweet  be  flung 
To  the  Brocken  far  away. 

Jagers  with  the  horns  ye  wind, 

Hounds  whose  tongues  the  chase  shall 
bay, 

Let  your  voice  the  echoes  find 
Of  the  Brocken  old  and  grey. 

Hark  amidst  the  bracken  green 
Bells  the  buck  whose  vigil  keeps 

Danger  from  the  hind  unseen, 

Danger  from  the  fawn  that  sleeps, 
in 


ii2  HUNTING  SONG 

Hears  he  us,  yet  heeds  us  not, 
Dreams  he  that  we  are  the  wind 

Phantoms  we  of  hounds  forgot, 

Ghosts  of  huntsmen  long  since  blind. 

Dreams  we  are  the  forest's  breath 
Waking  to  the  touch  of  day  ; 

Recks  not  'tis  the  horn  of  Death 
Dying  in  the  distance  grey. 

Hound  and  horn,  give  voice  and  tongue- 


SONGS    OF   FRANCE 


VERLAINE 

RIMBAUD  stands  at  Charleville 
Done  in  stone — a  statue  shameless, 
Paris  poets  daily  fill 
Books  that  in  a  year  are  fameless  ; 
Loti  mourns  and  Rostand  crows, 
Printers  print  what  years  scarce  glance  on, 
Like  a  stream  for  ever  flows 
La  Bonne  CJianson. 

Demi-god  turned  inside  out 
With  the  mortal  lining  showing, 
Face  of  satyr,  form  of  lout, 
Breath  the  fumes  of  Pernod  throwing ; 
Soul  besmeared  with  any  stains 
That  an  evil  thought  may  chance  on ; 
Be  it  so — yet  still  remains 
La  Bonne  Chanson. 

"5 


n6  VERLAINE 

Who  was  Verlaine,  what  was  he 
That  his  name  shall  live  for  ever  ? 
Ah !  could  you  tell  that  to  me 
I  would  know  what  you'll  know  never  ; 
I  would  know  why  stands  the  spring 
In  dark  courts  men  look  askance  on, 
Why  God  set  Verlaine  to  sing 
La  Bonne  Clianson. 

Let  the  faultless  cast  their  stone 

At  this  strange  form  far  from  faultless, 

Standing  gloomy,  lost,  alone 

'Neath  the  empyrean  vaultless  ; 

Falls  the  pebble  that  they  fling, 

Rises  aye  o'er  leaves  that  dance  on 

The  eternal  winds  of  spring 

La  Bonne  Chanson. 


PETER  AND  THE  PIERROT 

WHO  knocks  so  hard 

On  heaven's  own  gate  ? 
Tis  locked  and  barred  ; 

The  hour  is  late. 
Gone  twelve,  yet  wait 

A  moment's  space  ; 
What's  this?     Great  Fate! 

A  Pierrot's  face !  !  ! 


Well,  by  my  sleeve ! 

Nay,  do  not  fret ; 
I  called  to  leave 

A  lost  Pierrette 
These  roses  wet 

And  white  as  frost, 
Lest  she  forget 

Her  Pierrot  lost. 
117 


n8     PETER   AND  THE   PIERROT 

O  scamp  begone ! 

And  yet — 

and  yet- 
That  face  so  wan, 

Those  roses  wet. 
With  tears  each  flower 

Weeps  for  a  sin  ; — 
Though  late  the  hour, 

Pierrot,  come  in 


TARASCON 

HERE  it  is  raining, 

But  it  rains  not  there, 
No  heart's  complaining 

In  the  land  through  where 
Spring's  now  going 

Like  a  maiden  bold, 
Her  blue  skirts  blowing 

In  the  mistral  cold. 

Oh  the  colour !  Oh  the  beauty ! 

Of  that  town  so  small, 
Where  love's  a  duty, 

And  the  wild  birds  call 
Loud  at  the  skylights 

When  the  dawn's  on  wing, 
Low  in  the  twilights 

Of  the  blue,  blue  spring. 
119 


TARASCON 

I  hear  the  laughter 

From  the  barber's  shop, 
The  song,  and  after 

Comes  the  shears'  "crop,  crop,' 
Girls'  steps  straying 

As  the  shadows  steal, 
The  brass  band  braying 

From  the  Tour  de  ville. 

Long  am  I  banished 

From  that  southern  town, 
Do  they  miss  me  vanished? 

Are  they  also  flown—- 
The barber  so  knowing, 

And  those  maids  so  bold, 
Their  sweet  skirts  blowing 

In  the  mistral  cold  ? 


Pri*tt4by  Haatli  WttstH  &  Vituy,  U-,  Lando*  ana  Ayltibury. 


000  101  706     0 


